


Into Me For Everything I'm Not

by GoldStarGrl



Category: Veep
Genre: Body Worship, Boss/Employee Relationship, Cryptozoology-Verse, Eating Disorders, F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Lingerie, M/M, Pegging, Spanking, early morning sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-08 20:07:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7771402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldStarGrl/pseuds/GoldStarGrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Anyone ever do this to you before?”</p><p>Amy and Jonah, adventures in kinky sex and freaky feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A big thanks to fitchersvogel for letting me play in her sandbox - this takes place about a year after her fic Cryptozoology for Dummies, which you should all check out.

Outside of the district, nearly four in the morning was probably considered late. Time to sleep or at least rest. Most of the country, Amy guessed, arrived home from work at five and hit the sack hours ago.

They certainly weren’t standing on their knees in Jonah Ryan’s bed as he gently squeezed the cups their new bra with his big, warm hands, a look of awe and ridiculous giddiness most people reserved for the birth of a child plastered across his face.

“Jesus Christ.” He breathed. Amy fought the urge to jerk away, abashed, as he sucked the pulse point in her neck. He kept his head twisted awkwardly so he could still look down at the pale pink fabric as he did so. When they were both on their knees, their height difference was the same; he almost doubled over to trying to take her all in. “You’re so fucking gorgeous.”

She looked down, past her matching panties, to her knees, shifting her weight so they didn’t feel so numb. “I got them on sale at Target. My old ones were ratty.”

“You look-” Another slight pressure against her neck, another hickey for Dan to razz her about at work tomorrow. “-so fucking good. I want-” One of Jonah's hands dropped from under her left breast, slid down the side of her waist, and spread across her ass. “-to make you pink all over.”

Amy exhaled, short and sharp, and found herself unable to stop from pressing her thighs together, a feeble attempt to hide how damp she'd already become. Jonah noticed, pausing from sucking half her neck purple and righting himself.

“Ohhhh, you into that?” He grinned, that stupid shit-eating grin Amy found out she didn’t mind so much anymore, at least when it came out of red lips, all breathless and horny like that. He didn’t move his hand, instead pressed down on her left cheek, squeezing it.

She sunk down towards her heels, losing the battle against her own flushed face. But Jonah just laughed, not unkindly, and sat down. He swung his legs over the edge of his bed, and manhandled her across his lap. He balanced the heel of one foot against the metal edge of the bedframe, so his right leg lifted a little higher than it’s twin, and propped Amy’s ass farther up, sticking out from the rest of her body.

The sensation of exposure, the cool air of the room on her skin, was almost too much to bear. She grabbed a fistful of his sheets, hooking her ankles together and twisting in his lap, rubbing her wet clit against her own inner thighs, clenching and unclenching. Before she could get too close, Jonah’s hands were pulling apart her legs, and one of them gave her a sharp slap at the top of each thigh.

“Little slut. Learn some fucking self-control.” He murmured, and she moaned, a small, warbly noise she’d rather die than call a whimper.

He smacked her once, twice, three more times, in the center of her ass, letting the stinging heat spread under her skin as he gauged if she could handle it. “Anyone ever do this to you before?” He asked, rubbing a heavy hand across her ass, catching his fingers on the lacey edges of her panties. Her warm face pressed into the sheets, she nodded, almost imperceptibly.

Sometimes, on the shittiest of shit days, when Selina would rail against the whole world and all the cocksuckers who were blocking her vision for it, Amy would offer herself up as some sort of stress toy, just bend herself over the EEOB’s leather couch that cost more than her car. And Selina would hit her ass, again and again, pacing back and forth behind her, ranting about the incompetence of the government.

At first she’d offer, or Selina would wave her hand vaguely, an unspoken announcement that she needed her in position. After awhile, though, when it was late, just the two of them, and Selina got that look on her face, it was expected. Another on a long list of special skills she could never include in a resume.

Selina would push her skirt haphazardly up over her waist on certain occasions, almost like an afterthought, exposing her ass to the cameras Amy hoped the Secret Service would never find reason to scrutinize. She always hoped she’d be wearing the right underwear, one of the handful of thongs she bought once when Selina commented that she had “massive fucking panty lines” under her dresses.

(She’d squirmed in bed that night, thinking about how that comment meant Selina had been staring at her ass.)

“You just like being good for people, don’t you?” Jonah worked himself into a nice rhythm, smacking alternating cheeks, and then kneading the sting in.

“Mmm.” She replied.

When she wore a thong, spankings hurt more - no cotton protection, however thin it might have been - but Selina would rub her skin, murmur in a commiserating voice as Amy tried to breathe, keep her voice level and anwer Selina’s rhetorical questions dutifully, “No, ma’am.” “You’re right ma’am.”

Whether it was the memory of this, or Jonah’s own thick fingers on her, Amy was soaked, embarrassingly so. She tried to clench her legs together again. Jonah shoved his free hand between her thighs, his hand spanning the whole of her cunt, forcing her legs apart.

“Don’t use your legs, be a fucking lady.” She bucked her clit against his palm, helplessly. “Good girl.”

Fast, way, way too fast, Amy felt herself liquifying, grinding down into Jonah’s hand, still in her fucking underwear. He rubbed back and forth under her, taking his spanking hand to brush some of her sweaty hair out from where her face smushed against the sheets, and the frictions matched with such a gentle, domestic gesture made her lose it completely, shuddering a little, blinking rapidly, what Jonah teased her in calling "your epileptic cum face”. 

She usually didn’t come when Selina took her in hand. She’d get right to the edge, but instead focusing on tightening her grip on the leather cushions, slick under her hands, until Selina had tired herself out, unsure if orgasming in front of her boss would help or worsen the situation. Selina would pinch her red, tensed thighs, make some comment about how she should lay off the commissary cheesecake, and yank Amy’s skirt back down, dismissing her for the night.

And then Amy would run to the bathroom outside her own office and come with her head pressed against the cold white wall tile, feeling itchy and shaky as she walked to her car with bunched up pantyhose under a skirt that suddenly felt too tight.

“God, look at this fucking masterpiece.” Jonah said. Amy’s skin was painted with crimson handprints, a much harsher shade than the underwear it framed. He hunched over and pressed a kiss to her lower back. “ _Please_ let me take a picture.”

Amy gathered enough strength by then to lift her head and look around at him. “In your fucking dreams.”

“One day, Brookheimer, one day.” He ran the pads of his fingers lightly over her thighs, almost soothing. “God, your legs are so great. You’ve got this thick ass and the thighs to match.”

She rolled her eyes. “Such flattery.” but a tight feeling suddenly contracted in her chest. It wasn’t the familiar sinking anxiety. On the contrary; her whole chest felt rather light. “You want to...” She pulled herself back onto the middle of the mattress, rolling - tenderly - onto her back and canting her hips up, spreading her legs. Jonah’s eyes lit up.

“You’re okay to go?” He asked, already palming himself through his boxers, half-hard. Amy almost laughed as Jonah boxed her in with his elbows, forcing his leg into some sort of demented gymnastics pose in order to push her dirty panties down to her thighs with his toe. She smiled as his face hung above hers, grinning.

“Yeah. We’re good.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me and Jesus don't talk anymore. HMU on Tumblr.

“Man, that was fucking _awesome_.” Jonah gasped. He rolled off Amy, his hand lingering, rubbing her clit through the last wave of her orgasm. Even as she melted into her comforter, she kept enough muscle control to roll her eyes.

“Don’t call me _Man_ , I’m not your Alpha Sigma brother.” Jonah finished her off, removing his wet hand and letting it rest on his stomach.

“Hey, I’m Alpha _Delta_.” He said. “And you sound like Dan. Fucker had a _‘no calling me dude when you’re inside me’_ rule.”

Jonah laughed, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He turned onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, but Amy stayed on her side, watching as he caught his breath.

They usually didn’t mention their pasts with Dan, beyond the occasional dirty talk about spitroasting or double penetration when they were caught up in the moment and needed a third, hot body for their fantasies. That week Amy spent with Dan, the combination networking-sex that the D.C. social scene was infamous for, was so distant in her mind she sometimes felt it was only a story she knew. Something that happened to someone else.

From the look on Jonah’s face, though, Dan Egan, what he did, what they were together, still mattered to him.

“Is he the only guy you’ve…” She faded off, but even Jonah could infer the end of the sentence. His gaze didn’t waver from the ceiling, but he shifted his jaw, clicking his molars.

“Nah, there was this guy in college, too. Pitcher, both times.”

Right, she knew that. She knew him.

“Only two guys?” Amy pulled her legs up against her stomach, trying to ignore the feeling of hypocrisy that pulsed behind her naval. _Way to judge someone else’s numbers when the closest you’ve gotten to sleeping with a woman was letting your boss smack you around, Brookheimer_.

Jonah didn’t seem to mind though. He reached over and thumbed a strand of her hair off the rounded top of her ear.

“It took a long time to be chill with…” _Liking dudes._ “In a frat at Dartmouth, being into dick isn’t something you, y’know, broadcast.” He smirked, but again, it felt false, performative. “And when you’re packing a fucking whale everyone assumes you wanna be the guy, too. Dan did.”

This feelingsy shit was not what she signed up for, especially with Jonah Ryan, but sixteen months in (whatever bullshit Ed accused her of, she _could_ remember monthiversaries - she just thought they were dumb as shit.) she found the concept of Jonah’s traumatic college years didn’t make her want to run screaming into traffic.

“Did you wish they’d fucked you?” She asked, hooking her heel over his shin and pulling herself across the sheets, settling against his side. They were both still warm from sex, and she almost immediately felt overheated, but Jonah looked down at her then, and she didn’t move.

“I mean, yeah.” He said, his voice softer than normal. She almost clung to him tighter. Instead she she ran the side of her foot up and down his leg, chafing her skin a little on his leg hair.

“Do you still wanna be fucked?”

“Is that an offer?” His voice pitched back up to it’s normal volume and she almost laughed. Instead, she shrugged.

“Maybe if you earn it.” She turned back over, unfolded herself, and tilted her head up to the ceiling as Jonah ducked between her legs, raring for round two.

* * *

She’d never done it either, pegging or whatever people called it. Sophie would probably know all about it. The extent of Brookheimer conversations on this stuff was when eighth-grade Sophie asked tenth-grade Amy if it was cool to have sex on your period. Amy, still a virgin, had actually covered her ears and walked out of the room.

So going to her sister for bedroom advice - not really an option. She didn't exactly have a cabal of fun, flirty, _Sex and the City_ girlfriends to bounce ideas off of either. But the idea did exist, taking up valuable space in her head for three days after she and Jonah talked about it.

She was paranoid about looking it up on her own computer, even outside the office - anyone connected to Selina was surely a target of Anonymous or some bored MIT student who wanted to humiliate the Democratic party. So one night after work, late, while Jonah attempted to cobble together quesadillas from leftover chicken in his fridge, she grabbed a bottle of wine and snuck onto his Amazon account. Who the fuck cared if she bought it with his credit card? It was a gift for him, after all.

She got a little drunk that night - the chicken was a bust - and got buried in work and Chinese hackers for the next week. By the time she stepped into Jonah’s apartment with her phone still stuck to her face, nearly a week later, she’d flat-out forgotten about the purchase.

“Amy?” She could sense Jonah in the living room, the way she could feel someone behind her by the hair on her neck, but she didn’t really look at him, kicking of her heels in his front hall. God, how in the fucking hell did they get to the point where she had a place in his house for her _shoes_?

“One sec, I’ve got this fucker from the Texas Railroad Commission up my snatch.”

“ _Amy_.” Jonah’s voice came out louder, pushier. She sighed, looked up, and almost immediately wished she hadn’t.

Jonah had changed after work, and sat on his couch with his elbows balanced on the knees of his jeans, rolling a black, strappy contraption back and forth in his hands. His cheeks and the bridge of his nose tinged pink as he jerked his head, flicking his bangs out of his eyes. “Did you, um, order this?”

Fuck. Fuck Satan. Amy dropped her shoulder and let her purse roll down her arm, hitting the floor with a soft thump. Why did she think this was a good idea? Why did she rock the boat, push out of a streamlined process that was working, that was  _good?_ When did that ever work in her life, professional or personal? "Goddammit, we were drunk, it-it was supposed to funny, remember?" She shook her hair out of her face, twitchy. "Be-Because of that conversation-”

“I remember.” Jonah looked down at strap-on, and sunk his teeth into his bottom lip. His pink flush didn’t go away. “Fuck, babe.” He tossed it to Amy, but it bounced against her elbow, clattering on the ground next to her purse. “It’s not even my birthday.”

The strength of the relief that rushed through her embarrassed Amy. “Yeah?” She kept her eyes trained on him as she crouched down, slowly as to not rip her skirt, to pick up the strap-on. “What are we celebrating, then?”

Jonah shrugged, standing suddenly. “It’s Tuesday? There’s wasn’t a mass shooting? Fucking pick one.” A grin spread across his face. He wiped his hands on the fronts of his jeans, pointing like Uncle Sam as he passed her on the way to his bedroom. “Get that thing on, like, yesterday.”

Amy stripped down in Jonah’s grimy bathroom, trying not to catch sight of herself in the mirror. She was sure she looked lost, fumbly, lining up the straps around her legs and the small of her back, quickly checking on her phone if she should leave her underwear on. She didn’t do this. Not just _this_ , but buying things on Amazon, going the extra mile to get someone else off. She wasn’t this girl.

When she saw Jonah laid out on his stomach in his plaid boxers, worn soft by time and framing his long, pale back, her racing, uneasy thoughts slowed. He grinned up at her again, with an excitement in his eyes that almost seemed young, innocent, as he took her in, fake-dick and all. Her shoulders unhitched. She could do this.

Jonah jerked his head at the head of the bed behind him, sliding back onto his heels, raising his ass. “Get busy, Brooks.”

“Oh.” Amy blinked. She hadn't given any thought to the logistics of what position they’d use, but the idea of slamming into Jonah from behind, not being able to see if it hurt or if he was close...she didn’t like it. “I don’t think...okay.”

(Apparently she had concern for Jonah Ryan’s emotional well-being now, like he was her fucking father or grandma or something. Shit. Not thinking about family members right now.)

Jonah’s face dropped. “Don’t get cold feet on me, sweetheart.” He chuckled, a little too loud and long.

“You really want me to fuck you like that?”

Jonah shrugged. “Why make it complicated?”

The words stuck, cold and heavy in her stomach. It seemed like something someone else said, that Jonah repeated in an attempt to convince himself of it.

She had one guess which black Irish bastard hadn’t wanted to look at Jonah when they had sex, made him feel stupid and ashamed for wanting anything more.

“Have you never, like, done anal face-to-face?” God, this was so fucking high school.

Jonah didn’t answer. His blotchy blush got even more pronounced and uneven. He twisted onto his side, focusing on hooking his fingers through his boxers and shucking them off with far too much interest.

“Jesus Christ, do you even know _how?”_ She wasn’t teaching this fuckwad to have missionary with two dicks. Jonah got redder, and sat up.

“Fuck off, of course I do. I watch porn, Amy. A lot.”

She scrunched up her face. “Charming.”

“Just to keep myself fresh, up with the trends. You should be thanking me.”

Amy pinched the bridge of her nose. She contemplated walking out, but she already spent like fifteen minutes to get this stupid thing on right.

“Lie on your back.” She said instead. He frowned, crossing his arms and staring at a spot on the wall at random. She tilted her chin up and let her eyes flash. “ _Jonah_. On your back, _now_.”

Jonah grudgingly dragged his gaze back to her, unsuccessfully fighting a smile, and he did what he was told. Amy strode to the foot of the bed, grabbed Jonah’s ankles in each hand, and yanked him towards her.

“Ow, fuck! I wasn’t ready!” The annoyance in Jonah’s eyes quickly darkened, though, when Amy dropped leaned forward, letting Jonah’s long legs drape over her shoulders. His cock, already red, bobbed half-hard against his stomach. “Ah. _Fuck_.” The cuss came out very differently.

She ignored a weird urge to kiss his kneecaps, on either side of her head. Instead she dipped forward even farther, lightly running her pinky around the rim of his opening. She’d fingered him a few times before, usually when giving head, but she never got used to how tight he was, how Jonah sucked in a breath, fingers bunching his sheets into mounds under his hands, getting harder.

“Be gentle.” He laughed, and it was a testament to how much time they spent together, in dark, breathless spaces like this, that Amy could tell he was only kind of joking.

She worked her finger deeper inside him, adding another, occasionally dipping her head to lick a stripe along his cock. She didn’t take him in her mouth; just paid it enough attention that by the time she got the strap-on lubed up, plied him loose and open with three fingers, and teased the silicon tip at his entrance, Jonah was writhing, his eyes nearly watering. She knew he was close, so she didn’t waste anytime with fanfare, just pushed all the way in.

Jonah’s legs tensed on her shoulders and she nearly lost her balance. “Fuck!”

“Does it hurt?”

He shook his head, wordlessly, and bore down, dropped his weight onto the dildo and actually arched his back. It was one of the hottest things Amy had ever seen. She felt herself getting wet under all the plastic and clips. She thrust into him again, again, again, before she had to breath, her abdomen aching.

“Takes a lot of core strength, doesn’t it?” Jonah laughed through his (frankly pornographic) panting. In response, Amy just planted her hands on his hips, and drew him into her, deeper, deeper. She thought about Jonah feeling this, feeling what she did to him, for the rest of the night, whenever he sat down at work the next day. Jonah walking around sore and satisfied because of her.

Jonah cricked his neck up to look at her, his pupils blown, and he came on his own stomach, with a graceless, loud string of swears and declarations of love and her name.

She pulled out of him carefully, but he still winced a little. His legs felt heavy on her shoulders, so she shoved them off, letting Jonah catch his breath as she undid the strap-on and stripped off her underwear. He barely sat up when she climbed onto his lap, straddled him, rubbed her throbbing clit against his firm, sweaty thigh.

“Whoa there." He said. “You’re like the little energizer bunny.” He slid his hands down her back, between her shoulderblades and just above the swell of her ass.

“Fuck off.” She knew it was undignified, rutting against his leg like a fucking dog, but they were really past the point of dignity, weren’t they? Jonah shifted to sit up straighter, and another soft gasp escaped his lips. “Feeling sore?” The mere thought that he was made her clit pulse, made her pick up the pace.

He wrapped his arms more tightly around her. “Feeling triple-A awesome.” He let his head drop against her neck, kissing her bare shoulder as she felt her orgasm rise up within her. “Thanks, Ame.”


	3. Chapter 3

Jonah, in typical rich kid fashion, paid to have someone deliver groceries to his apartment every week. He claimed he was too busy to shop, but Amy suspected it was another in a long list of little actions he took to make himself seem successful, grown up. Throwing open his cabinets at midnight on a Tuesday and being greeted by bags and bags of chips and cookies, though, she wasn’t complaining.

Jonah gave her a key to his apartment a month before, strangely shy and stammering through the whole presentation. She hated when he rambled, so she grabbed it out of his hand on his third "so anyway, um" and shoved it in her bag. On nights like tonight, when Jonah clocked out several hours before she did, and her bones tripled in fatigue at the idea of driving all the way back to her apartment when his sat so much closer, she had to admit it was a nice idea.

She ripped the clip off a mostly-full bag of corn chips, not even caring about the brand in the darkness of the kitchen. She heard Jonah’s slow breathing on the couch - he probably fell asleep playing video games or watching Dan on MSNBC again - so she didn’t turn on any lights as she kicked off her work heels and leaned against the counter, mindlessly shoving chips into her mouth, not bothering to chew them properly, and the sharp corners scraped her throat as she swallowed.

What a fucking bitch of a day. Mike got into an out-and-out fight in the pressroom over some inconsequential story about Andrew, both Ohio senators were too busy sucking their own dicks to show up for a gun owner background check vote, which caused it it be shot down by one, and Selina - Ugh, _Selina._  

Selina kept obsessing about a dress the _Post_ photographed her in the day before. She thought she looked chunky. It became harder and harder to listen to the more she brought it up. _This is the reason people didn’t want a woman president!_ Amy wanted to shout. _Do you realize you sound like some kind of conservative cartoon?_

But of course she didn’t, just bit her tongue and mentioned how she wished she looked as good in pegged skirts as Selina.

“Yeah, you probably have to stick with empire waists, huh?” Selina said, flinging a hand vaguely towards Amy’s midriff, already onto her next anxiety. Gary’s eyes slid back towards Amy, tinged with sympathy. Her grip tightened around her Blackberry and she shoved past him onto a waiting elevator; it would be a cold day in hell when she let Gary fucking Walsh feel sorry for _her._

Her fingernails dragged across something crinkly. She looked down, and realized with slight horror she’d eaten down to the bottom of the bag, orange tinged fingers clawing at the metallic paper.

“Fuck.” She dropped the empty bag on the floor, where it rustled softly. She turned around against the counter, hating herself for the frustrated, tiny tears pricking hot against the corners of her eyes. She gripped the sides of the sink, half full of dirty cups and silverware, and bowed her head over it. _You fucking pig._ She scolded herself. _What are you, a fucking eight-year-old whose parents left for the weekend?_

Almost unconsciously, she felt the muscles in her throat contracting, knowing the drill, dutifully pushing up a dry heave. She coughed over the sink, her mouth filling with saliva. “ _Fuck it._ ” She said again, softer this time. She lifted her right hand and shoved her index and middle fingers into her mouth.

“Amy?”

Shit. She dropped her hand but didn’t turn around at Jonah’s voice, draped in sleep, from the couch. “Go back to sleep.” She managed. God, she was so, so tired.

Jonah ignored her. The couch creaked and he sat up, pushing himself off it. “Are you sick? Don’t fucking get your germs everywhere, I have to go with Tom James to South Carolina next week, I can’t be fucking puking all over everything.”

His feet were padding on the floor behind her, and she could almost feel his eyes drop to the empty chip bag on the ground, and she couldn’t make herself move. Her throat convulsed again, and she doubled over, another dry heave and spit. Jonah’s hands were on her arm.

“ _Shit_.” He said, in a much different voice, and shame so intense she couldn’t bear to look at him rose inside her. She jerked her arm away.

“I’m fine.”

“Did you eat that whole bag?”

She whipped around, lifting her head to present him with a death glare, but something in her face revolted. It trembled instead of tightening, and Jonah’s eyes widened. Before she could move, she felt his arms encircling her. He hunched over a little to rest his chin on the top of her head.  

“Dude, it’s fine, those things are addictive, right?” She didn’t answer. He shifted against her, took a hand off her back to comb his fingers through his bangs. “Is this like...a thing? Do you need to go to a doctor or something?”

High school it was worse, less about her weight as it was having control over something, in a world of college applications and internships and nobody sitting with her at lunch. Then she got here, arrived in D.C., the one that was somehow different than the city she’d lived in all her life. In this D.C., not only were women expected to be flawlessly competent and work eighty hour weeks and pop out three adorable children for their Senator husbands, they also had to be a size 2. People like Selina made sure you never forgot it.

She mumbled this, not sure how much she was actually saying out loud and how coherent it was, with her face smushed into Jonah's shoulder. The longer she talked, the more her stomach settled, the less her throat stopped trying to push up a mountain of Doritos.

When she finished, Jonah just snorted. She pulled back.

“What was that, asshole?”

He shrugged, his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, still smirking with his eyebrows raised, incredulous that she didn't get a joke. “How could you think you’re not hot?”

 _That’s not what it’s about, I’m an Ivy-League educated 33-year-old feminist, not some high school sophomore upset no one asked her to prom. That would be pathetic._ “Fuck off.”

“You’re like, the hottest woman in D.C.”

“I’m sorry I ate all of those, I’ll buy you some new ones tomorrow.” She said, although she couldn’t remember the last time she went grocery shopping. She made to leave, lock herself in Jonah’s room alone and try to sleep away the shit day and her impending stomachache. He grabbed her wrist. Not hard. Like they were on the subway, and he wanted to make sure she didn’t get off a stop too early. She glared anyway. “Fucking _what?”_

He tugged her forward by her wrist, closing the space between them, as she bumped into his chest. He leaned down and kissed her, on her forehead, then her lips. He crouched a little, pressing kisses into her neck, her collarbone. She squirmed, turning to look up at the light over his stove. Her body, her stupid, horrible, traitorous body, began to tingle.

“Jonah…”

“Lift up your arms.” He said. He reached behind her, fiddling with the metal zipper, and she did. Just lifted her arms in the air like she’d been asked to breathe.

Jonah dropped down onto his haunches, grabbed the hem of her dress, and pulled it as he stood up, tugging it up over her hips, her breasts, her head, and throwing it onto the floor. Amy closed her eyes, sucked in her stomach. Jonah gave her a light tap on the side of her right thigh. “C’mon Brooks, don’t try that bullshit with me.” Amy exhaled, obeying for some unknown reason.

He pulled down her panties, and she stepped out of them, just as oddly pliable. He had a little more trouble with her bra - what was it about grown men, some much smarter than Jonah, finding themselves puzzled by a contraption 12-year-old girls could unhook one-handed? - but when he finally got it loose, he slid it off her shoulders, joining the rest of her clothes in a pool on the ground, and she let him. The air conditioning in his apartment wasn’t blasting, not this time of year, but she still felt her nipples erect, and crossed her arms high over her bare breasts to cover them.

She was naked, her back brushing against the wooden kitchen cabinets. Jonah was still fully clothed in his old Dartmouth t-shirt and gray sweatpants, though the latter tented in his arousal. He reached under his twisted arms, palming the bottom of each breast, forcing his fingers past her elbows to rub each nipple. Amy felt herself getting damp between her legs, feeling warmer when she realized nothing could hide that fact.

Jonah dropped to his knees, slowly, so he could run his warm hands along the sides of her shoulders, stomach, hips as he did. “Look at these fucking curves.” He mumbled. “There’s probably a math equation for your ass.”

She laughed. Short, barking. She couldn’t help it. Jonah’s dirty talk was extremely hit or miss. He didn’t seem deterred, though, pushing his head between her legs, pushing open her thighs. Jonah had a great tongue, hot and long and wide. Sometimes Amy was tempted to talk about it with Dan, speculate if Jonah’s Ryan’s mouth was built for going down on people.

He started licking her in the shapes of the alphabet, but he usually didn’t need to go past B - “ _B_ for Brookheimer”, he laughed once, and she kicked him off the edge of his own couch - and tonight was no exception. Her spine arched back, digging into the cold metal rim of the sink, and she let her arms drop from hiding her chest, digging her fingers into his hair. His eyes flicked up and crinkled in amusement. In the dark of the kitchen, his pale skin seemed almost luminous, his dark hair mussed and falling in his hazel eyes. The word  _beautiful_ careened through Amy's mind.

“You know the first time I saw you?” He asked, lifting his head to breath, and her legs clenched together, her throbbing clit already desperate in his absence. Yet another biological, unconscious, reflex in the fucked-up body of Amy Brookheimer. _Make yourself throw up junk food. Let Jonah Ryan go down on you and flip the fuck out when he stops._ “You were wearing this pencil skirt and gayass gray suit jacket-”

“Shut up.”

“-Hey, I can say that.” He paused, lightly flicking her with his tongue. She gasped. His touches were torturously light. “And I swear to God, your thick fucking ass and tits poppin’ out of that shitty bra…”

Ugh, she hated that bra. It was too small, stores never sold double Ds unless they were covered with lace and stripper glitter. She couldn’t believe he remembered that.

“...I had to go to the bathroom across the hall from Selina’s office to rub one out.”

“That’s disgusting.” The sentiment would’ve carried more weight if she hadn’t been breathing so heavily, if Jonah didn’t press into her pussy with two fingers, which stung for a blinding second before she tightened around them. He followed with final hard swipe of his tongue before saying, “It’s so fucking hot that you eat. You're so fucking hot whatever you do.” He mumbled as Amy came, shaky, with her eyes squeezed shut. He grabbed her hips, and the small part of her brain that wasn’t fuzzy and uncoiled almost admonished him for using her as a pullup bar.

But he didn’t stand up. He just pressed his lips to her stomach, right at the part she hated, that swelled out from above her crotch, drooping over jeans and making her feel like she was suffocating when she forced the zippers of her skirts closed. And he kissed her heated skin, moving his head to either side of his hips, letting his hands drop down to her legs. His eyes widened as the curved, white lines on her inner thighs.

“Holy fuck, were you stabbed?”

“She swatted him on the side of the head. “They’re stretch marks, shithead.”

“Oh.” He grinned, a big one that nearly split his face. “See? Hot.”

She rolled her eyes. Her stomach didn’t hurt so much anymore.


End file.
